ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2010

The Obedience of Faith

I landed in Miami on Super Bowl weekend. But I kept going, on to St. Louis. I went in obedience to Pilar Harrison, who long before, in fact, ever since her husband Dean’s funeral in 1999, had called me to attend her passing as well. “You will speak for my funeral, too, Miguel.”

Pilar died January 27, but she had arranged her cremation, so the Mass and memorial service was unhurried, scheduled for February 13. This gave us time to plan a loving tribute to her life; anyone who knew her wanted to participate, from folks who knew her since the late 1960s when she first came to America from Barcelona, Spain, to marry Dean, all the way to little Katie Melching, 9 years old, who wanted to sing with her daddy Brian at the service for the “angel” who often brought supper for her handicapped mommy Angela.

Pilar was always doing for others, but she’d laugh when she’d answer the phone with her Catalan accent and some nosey caller would ask for “the lady of the house.” Pilar did not mind being taken for the maid, but it’s a mistake she never made herself, that is, prejudging others by appearances. She was always on the move, filled with the same Spirit that formed the cloistered Passionist nuns, contemplating Christ night and day. Pilar took their grocery order every week, way out to the convent at the west end of Manchester Road. The big congregation at her funeral was as varied as a random round-up at the U.N., yet we were all linked by our love for one particular person.

I excerpt my “eulogy” below, but I have to add one annotation. After I spoke, I kept hoping for a sign from Pilar that she forgave the embarrassing confession I made in the speech. On Ash Wednesday, Teresa Jorgen and I went looking for a fish fry. According to the newspaper, there was a fish fry at Incarnate Word Church, where we’d just had Pilar’s funeral a few days before. That would be a nice coincidence, we thought. We got there...and nothing. Some kids playing in the gym, another little after-school group in the cafeteria. What the heck? So Teresa said, Let’s go to Gulf Shores, a favorite spot of Pilar’s just up Olive Street Road.

As soon as we walk in, we hear a blues guitar and a big greeting, “Teresa! Miguel!” It was Brian Melching, Katie’s dad, who plays and records under the name Pennsylvania Slim, and he’d just started his set. OK, this was no coincidence! A gal who grew up under Francisco Franco’s dictatorship in Spain, diggin’ the blues--this was the sign I was waiting for. Nothin’ better than the blues to make you feel good about your hard times. As Teresa exclaimed, “Pilar loved Pennsylvania Slim!” While we ate our fish and chips, Brian dedicated every other song either to Pilar or Teresa or me, and none of the other customers seemed to mind. We got his latest CD and played it all the way home.

Pilar, I guess, planned everything but the weather. Frozen! I cleaned snow off the car--Pilar’s car! which I was “borrowing”--at least four times. What is the matter with you people?? How do you live like this?? I took pictures like some tourist from another planet, to show back in Honduras, where my daily phone calls reported hot, sunny days.

On the other hand, I was warmed up by good times with good friends, even when we were cleaning out Pilar’s condo, the stories we told, the memories we shared. But the friends I was most eager to see were the ones I hadn’t met yet--the babies! Little Jaslyn, born last October, the daughter of my nephew Jason and wife Sonja. Of course, if you wanna ooh and ahh this charmer, you gotta get a line ticket, there’s such a crowd! (Actually, speaking of tickets, Jason’s receiver coach at Illinois, Greg McMahon, is the special teams coach for the New Orleans Saints and invited Jason down to Miami for the Super Bowl. He couldn’t quite get Jason into the game, but he got him into THE PARTY!!)

Then I got to meet Ellie Florence, born in December, the daughter of Parkway North grad and St. Louis Symphony graphic designer Carol Stanton and her five-star chef husband Kirk Warner. (As Carol said, “I had NO trouble with my food cravings” during her pregnancy.) Ellie’s a cutie, already tempting a nickname like “Stringbean.” She cries a little, but maybe because she’s already a diva!

Way too early for a Cardinals game (though spring training is starting), I yielded to the meatloaf grandmaster Rams’ wisdom, who frowned at the prospect of my doing such a quick turn-around to come right back in April, and then disappear again till God knows when. “Why don’t you spread it around?” So she suggested I return later in September, in time for my October birthday--and maybe a World Series game.

And, indeed, I really must attend to business in Honduras. I spent 200 dollars on phone calls back “home” keeping track of Chemo. School finally started, a week late, and Chemo is cottoning up to his new teacher, Profe Vitelio. And he’s shepherding his 3 little nieces to class every day, for the first time really in their lives. So that’s working.

But the extracurricular activities were more disturbing. Every phone call, Chemo had another request, new shoes, new toys, new clothes, but the most persistent wish was for a new portable DVD player. “But you already have one,” I would say. (That was the big present I got him after his open-heart operation.) “No, it’s...scratched.” Pretty soon, I hear he’s sold it! For 300 Lempiras (about 15 bucks, when it cost ten times that). “No, I didn’t! Who told you?” That’s a story in itself. I called Cristian, the teen who got shot , pretty often, and most often Pablito and Chepito would be over at his house, so one day they’re hemming and hawing and beating around the bush till Cristian finally puts his sweet as pie little sister Mariela on the line, who tells me, with obvious prompts from the boys, “Chemo sold his--what’s it called?--‘portatil.’ Oh, and it’ my birthday.” Their deniability thus preserved, I could honestly tell Chemo, “they” (Chepito, Pablito, or Cristian) did not tell me.

But that’s not the point, Chemo! I talked to Dora, I talked to Natalia, Chemo’s grandma, who never leaves the house, but she was was so upset she crossed town to confront Chemo along with Dora. And Dora got it back, from Walter, a nice kid (I thought!), though the money question remained to be clarified. Chemo finally admitted his enterprising--though his monosyllables were a lot harder to decipher than Tiger Woods’ apology.

Other, even more bizarre stories kept circulating, but I had to dismiss these as fantasies. I couldn’t have Dora running down every rumor.

But even before I got back to Las Vegas, I had to bail out three Las Vegan teens in Tegucigalpa--Gerardo, Marvin, Olancho. Well, not really bail them out with cash; I sweet-talked them out of custody. The day I got back from the States, I invited them to Pizza Hut in the mall to celebrate Gerado’s 19th birthday. Gerardo is the brother of Cristian, the kid who got shot; also invited was Marvin, whose life Cristian saved by taking the bullet; and their mutual cousin Olancho. You know how malls are with teenagers now. Talk about profiling! I was already in the restaurant waiting for them with an order of Hut Wings when the manager, Roger, who’s been a pal for years since he was an eager-beaver waiter, comes running up to me. “They’ve been arrested!” (Even he knows these kids, from previous invites.) In a panic, we packed up the Hut Wings and I hurried off, with a floor-walker, to the security office on the roof. “They took them to the police station already,” I was informed. What, not Guantanamo?

I grabbed a cab to the station, which is right next to the hospital where Chemo got his heart operation, so I knew the area well. I expressed equal parts of dismay, shock, subservience, solicitude, understanding, and sternness, whatever worked. Eventually, I was ushered into the sergeant’s office. I explained that I come to the capital city once a month and invite friends from Las Vegas now living and working--I emphasized WORKING, that is, that they were responsible, not slackers--in Tegus. Then he called the boys in and sat them down and told me, eyeing them all the time, “Sir, you know, as a former teacher [we’d already discussed that] that you can recognize a bad student the first time you see them; I’ve got twenty years of experience as a police officer and I can tell you right now, these guys are not as pure as you think they are.” Nerves, I guess, but I came very close to what would have been a very inappropriate laugh when he said “pure” since “puro” is also the Spanish word for cigar. “They’re not the cigars you think they are.” In fact, they did look pretty scuzzy--well, they’d come straight from work! But I agreed with the voice of authority, meanwhile shushing Marvin, who was muttering under his breath about how unfair this all was. What I did not say was that, as a teacher, I had in fact dedicated my whole life to fighting prejudice, precisely, NOT to judge anyone by their appearance. But let him have his way--we got out of there and crossed the street to another, smaller mall, with its own Pizza Hut, and we opened up our Hut Wings (the waiter kindly provided a plate), ordered up a pizza and finished our evening in peace.

Back in Las Vegas now, I’m in my shirt sleeves, where the weather is alternating between baking heat (love it!) and breezy cool (you would call it summer). Chemo and his nieces have yet to all have class the same day, with this teacher out, then that teacher out, but I love our little ritual: Chemo gets up early and gets ready and we go over to his grandma Natalia’s, where the girls are staying till their mom and day, Alba and Santos, come back, probably not till April, from picking coffee, and we go off to school together, also his cousin Dionis, Natalia’s youngest, in fifth grade. The girls are Chila, 13, in second grade, Mirna, 11, and Reina, 9, both in second grade with Profe Flor. A hopeful start, though I saw “Why did you not do your HOMEWORK??” scrawled on Mirna’s notebook already. You gotta understand, Madam Teacher, these girls have practically no experience being in school. Give ‘em a break, OK? Of course, personal attention is at a premium, when you’ve got 40 kids in a classroom....

The transitions are so abrupt. At 6:00 in the morning, I’m handing off my big warm Cardinals jacket to Teresa Jorgen at Lambert Airport in St. Louis, and by noon I’m landing in Honduras, hot and dry and sunny. I tell you, going either way is not easy. It’s harder every time I leave Chemo behind, and it’s sheer torture to leave such dear friends and family in St. Louis.

One transition was even more final. The whole time I was in St. Louis, I wanted to visit Tom Thompson--”Don Tomas” to his thousands of students at Parkway East Junior High (as it was called) and Parkway North High. But it was very hard to catch him on a “good” day, because he was so sick. Still at home, in the loving hospice care of Patricia, easing Tom’s transition to his last despedida, or farewell, I finally got the chance the Thursday before I left town. He was alert, and profoundly thoughtful; all he wanted to talk about was Pilar, how good and wise and loving she was; indeed, how good she had made all the rest of us. I didn’t stay long. “I won’t see you again, Miguel,” he said, as we kissed good-bye. “I love you.” We both said that. Don Tomas died three days later, Sunday morning, February 21, just a week before his birthday.

So strange, isn’t it? Pilar had sent for me, after her death, but, in some mystery, she knew it was an invitation to see Don Tomas, too, before his passing. What St. Paul calls “the obedience of faith” is simply love. When we respond, even God falls into our lap.

Love, Miguel

EULOGY for PILAR VILARÓ HARRISON

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Incarnate Word Catholic Church

As much as Pilar loved Dean, she did not keep him to herself. I counted myself among their friends, but I did not realize how good was their love, how rich, how full, how all-embracing, until after Dean died. Some time later, Pilar gave me...Dean’s wedding ring.

But I lost it! You see, for several years, I wore the ring for any special occasion--Pilar’s birthday, Dean’s birthday, the anniversary of Dean’s death, their wedding anniversary, Easter, Christmas, New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving--anytime I knew that I would see Pilar. Suddenly, after a certain flurry of celebrations--putting the ring on, taking it off, putting it on--somehow, I misplaced it. Lost it!

I was miserable! I searched everywhere. I’m still convinced it’s somewhere in my old apartment on Delmar. I tore up at least a couple floor boards looking for it.

I bought a ring to replace Dean’s ring--and I never really had to tell Pilar, because shortly afterwards, I moved to Honduras. Yes! I ran away! But now, Pilar knows what a numbskull I am! I’m so sorry, Pilar! But maybe she forgives me.

This ring, even it it’s not “really” Dean’s ring, does I hope do Pilar and Dean some honor. This ring is my tribute to their love, a love that included all of us. Because love is never lost. So let us love one another, as Pilar loved Dean, that nearly, that dearly, that really.

Amen.

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010

Shaken Haiti Syndrome

Our “dear Pilar.” Everybody says it. You can’t help it. Pilar Harrison, this little lady with the heart of a saint, left us on January 27, at age 81. But I dare anyone to call her “old.” She was always the youngest person in the room. If you were anywhere near Parkway Schools in the last decades, you remember her. I attended her last “lesson” last spring in St. Louis, when she came out of retirement, you might say, to teach her former colleagues how to make a “tortilla espanola.” Let’s face it, it was just an excuse to be with Pilar! Her death leaves me shaken, but her goodness restores me to believe in wholeness. And nothing was fuller than the love between Pilar and Dean, her husband who passed away on Thanksgiving Day,1999. God bless their re-union....

Sensible people scoff at the idea of a limited or “targeted” nuclear bomb, a weapon indiscriminate by nature. But who would ever have thought of a targeted earthquake that would devastate Haiti while leaving the Dominican Republic, which shares the same island, virtually untouched? As incomprehensible as the suffering and loss are, the prospect of a planned attack leaves one’s faith in ruins, too. Quoting Robert Frost, “What but Design of darkness to appall--if Design govern in a thing so small.” But they were singing!

Is Death’s dark aim targeting Elvis’ family? Don Vidal, Elvis’ father, 71, is the latest casualty. He died a couple weeks after a drunken binge on Christmas Eve. He’d come close before, but this time he not only poisoned himself with booze but fell and hit his head, never to recover, despite being rushed to the hospital in San Pedro Sula. He was improving a tiny bit, and they were bringing him home, dazed and confused, barely conscious, not recognizing his own children. He died in the car just as they passed through Victoria, almost home to Las Vegas. The last time I mentioned Don Vidal in these reports, we were rejoicing; he had joined AA as a faithful member, the most eloquent and seemingly self-aware of any of the little group. A teacher and a natural orator, his own reflections on his alcoholism could fill another Blue Book (the AA “Bible”). But he fell off the wagon many times since, and I was just too embarrassed or something to tell you. His wife Yuya, so happy for a while--AA even met in their house sometimes!--is back to square one, I guess, and may move in with family in San Pedro Sula..

Actually, I was not there for the end of Don Vidal, since Chemo and I were in Tegucigalpa with Chemo’s sister Rosa and her husband Tonio, for the heart brigada, which declared Rosa improving enough with medicines that she did not need an operation. Chemo and I got back to Las Vegas just in time for the last 4 days of Don Vidal’s novenario, the nine days of prayer for the dead. The family has its own litany, Don Faustino, the patriarch, the only “natural” death, you could say, at 96, a couple years ago, then, in quick succession, Marvin, Elvis’ brother, run over by a taxi in New York City, Don Tomas, Elvis uncle, run down by a motorcycle in San Pedro Sula, Wil, Elvis’s nephew, shot by a gang that took offense at the Mother’s Day gift he was carrying, and now Don Vidal, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.... Alcoholics Anonymous is so blessed a gift, like a child hidden in the hand of God, but even miracles don’t always “work.”

It only took five minutes for the doctors of the brigada doing Rosa’s echocardiogram to decide that Rosa did NOT need surgery, but those few minutes were embedded in a 12-day marathon with an “Avatar” budget. I had to smile, because in the States you’d get in your car, drive to the doctor, get your echo and the good news and head home, in time for lunch. Such is not Honduras. But I really had to smile, to think, our prayers had been answered, so the whole trip was well worth it. I had been tied in knots ever since the August brigada when Dr. Christian Gilbert first told us that he would be happy to see Rosa, 22, even though the brigada is for children. So we brought her in November, when we got to the very brink of surgery (Rosa was already in the hospital), and Dr. Gilbert reconsidered: “Let’s try some meds first.” Then January and another brigada: Rosa is improving, no surgery required! As Dr. Gilbert himself said, “Hallelujah!” Ron Roll and Alba, sponsors of Helping Hands for Honduras, had invited us, along with other families, to welcome the brigada at the airport. They were coming on American, Continental, and Delta flights, all arriving about the same time. Alba had lots of heart-shaped balloons and you should have seen Dr. Gilbert’s face light up when he saw Rosa.

I was not alone in my anxiety regarding Rosa, for which I must thank you for sharing the burden of prayer and lifting Rosa up. But the good news did not release us immediately--we had to do her teeth. Eleven cavities. She needed five appointments to get them all, and even with a 40% discount from the wonderful Dr. Juan Handal, I thought, Does anybody do teeth transplants? Rosa was very brave--I’m afraid I sat this one out. I stayed in the hall, while Tonio her husband and Chemo went into the chamber with her. Of course, even in the hall I could hear the buzz of the drill, but I didn’t have to worry about any blood spurting on me.

That is, till I got in the chair myself, to extract the tooth--finally!--that’s been bothering me since before I moved down here. It’s been capped and recapped and honed and cemented and “saved” till I finally cracked the root in half just before Christmas and it swung like a trap door. The dentist pulled it out in pieces. I’ve got a hole in my head now that makes me look even more like a Honduran, most of whom can’t afford “dental work,” so they just get them yanked--sometimes 2 or 3 at a time--at the local clinic for about a dollar apiece. I have not decided if I’ll get a replacement--depends on how bad I want to eat popcorn, I guess.

Birthday cake, of course, is no problem. So we celebrated little Jefferson’s 5th birthday, along with his little sister Helen, in the care of great-grandma Agnes. These kids are special for me since I pass their house daily on my way to Jacinto’s store. Dirt poor. I started the habit of getting them a little juice and snack at Jacinto’s and I thought, let’s do a birthday. In Tegucigalpa, I had picked up a couple “Avatar” toys at the airport McDonald’s--they’re blue and they light up, what more could you want? Just look at Jefferson’s smile--little does he realize he’s part of a billion-dollar promotion.

Speaking of visitors from beyond, Fermincito came home! He left to seek his fortune in the States just before the golpe de estado, and he returned just as Mel Zelaya rode off into the sunset. Coincidence? You be the judge! Ironically, Chemo and I were visiting Fermin and Maria and the family just when “Fer,” as he’s known, showed up. I was checking emails on my laptop, and Maria comes in. Making conversation, you know, I say, What do you hear from Fermincito? “He’s in the living room right now.” I think, I thought I knew Spanish, but that makes no sense at all! But there he was, now 20, a little worse for wear--he broke his left arm badly when a tractor turned over on him and he never really made it much past the Mexican border. When I asked him why he came back--besides the obvious hopelessness of the situation--he said to see his little daughter. But his father Fermin confided in me that Petronilla, Fer’s girlfriend, came to the house privately when there were rumors of Fer’s return, to say she would not see him and she would keep their little daughter away from him, too. So she’s in hiding. You see, Fer got in over his head with some gangs in Morazan, which is probably why he left town. Even Fermin wonders if he and Maria and the family are in danger, with Fer’s return. I mean, here gangs kill you if you’re in a gang, if you’re not in a gang, if you were in a gang, if want to get out of a gang--but this protocol is universal, yes?

Watching Chemo playing with Fermin and Maria’s youngest, Jose Miguel, I couldn’t believe it. Before his surgery, Chemo, now 15, was the same size as Jose Miguel, now 8. Chemo has sprung up like Alice in Wonderland (“Drink Me”) and good Lord! he’s a giant next to the kid.

Meanwhile, the new President of Honduras, Pepe Lobo, is also trying to measure up. His very first decision was the most controversial, but thank God! He actually interrupted his inaugural address to sign a pardon for ousted President Mel Zelaya. It was like Gerald Ford pardoning Nixon, an outrage to some, but we have to get the mess behind us. Then he personally escorted Mel from the Brazilian embassy, where he’s been since he sneaked back into Honduras in September, to the airport, where a plane arranged by the President of the Dominican Republic flew Mel off to that island paradise (?). Mel is living in a huge mansion for now, but I hope he knows he’s got a shovel-ready job at the other end of the island in Haiti. Hey, Mel! man of the people, right? Get busy! And the “interim” president, Roberto Micheletti, who was also covered by the amnesty, made no appearance at the inauguration, lest he be a “distraction.” He just quietly slipped away to his own hacienda outside El Progreso. So I’m done picking on them, I’m just so grateful there was no violence, no assassination attempts and so on.

We might get back on our feet--just in time for own earthquake....

Love, Miguel

REMEMBERING PILAR...in St. Louis

REMEMBERING PILAR...in St. Louis

A memorial Mass is scheduled for Pilar Harrison at Incarnate Word Catholic Church, Saturday, February 13, 2010, at 10:00 a.m., reception following.

Incarnate Word Church is located at 13416 Olive Blvd. (by Woods Mill Rd. AKA 141), Chesterfield, MO 63017. (314-576-5366)

This is the same church where the memorial Mass for Pilar’s husband Dean was held some 10 years ago.

Pilar, 81, died January 27 at St. Luke's Hospital after a final illness. Little as she was, her Spirit is ever strong! She lived a charmed life, surviving Franco's Spain, till she found her Prince Charming in penpal Dean, who brought her as his wife to St. Louis, where she studied at St. Louis U. and began a long teaching career in the Parkway School District. She charmed so many of us, that I thought I would send everyone this e-mail.

Pilar was so good she found something charming in everyone, even in me! She left money to pay my airfare to St. Louis for her memorial. Hope to see at least some of you there!

While in St. Louis, February 4th through the 22nd, I am available on my GoPhone (314-605-3267) or at Teresa Jorgen’s house (314-966-5782).

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

A thrill of hope

On December 2, following a day-long solemn and sober debate, televised on every channel, the National Congress voted 111 to 14 not to restore Mel Zelaya to the presidency. Thus was fulfilled the major element of the accord signed in November by Mel and “interim president” Roberto Micheletti, that Mel’s fate would rest in the hands of the diputados. Still lacking is a “government of reconciliation” and a Truth Commission.

Some people say Mel Zelaya was “the best president Honduras ever had.” That would make him the world’s tallest midget. In fact, poverty went up under Mel, with over 5 million (of a population of 7.5 million) in poverty, 3.5 million of those in “extreme” poverty, and at the bottom 1.5 million living on a dollar a day or less. Mel’s horse was living on a thousand dollars a day! With the wealthy world euthanizing the poor with ethanol--filling SUV gas tanks with food--it’s bound to get worse.

Now all eyes turn to Pepe Lobo, who had won the November 29 election by a landslide to become the next president, with inauguration scheduled for January 27. Hope and change? More likely another round of corruption, but it will be “our” corruption, you know, just the way we like it. Humorist Dave Barry’s “Year in Review” is probably more accurate than he knows: “In a setback for U.S. interests in Central America, voters in Honduras elect, as their new president, Rod Blagojevich.” Meanwhile, Mel Zelaya is still a thorn in the side. He says he’s leaving the country, he says he’s staying, he says he’s going--who cares? Follow him on Twitter.

So things have sort of settled down, and when I step back a little, I notice with some chagrin that I have enjoyed playing the role of political pundit these past few months way too much. Like I was auditioning for a spot on Fox News or something. These reports are supposed to be inspired a little more by the Sermon on the Mount than by talk radio!

So let’s get back to basics.

Cristian, 19, was shot in the stomach by his own drunken father at the cantina. He’s recovering, very unsurely and painfully. To be precise, he was hit in one of the few spots where death was not certain, it seems--about four inches to the left of his belly-button. Cristian, one of the “cantina boys,” as I call them, has appeared in these reports numerous times. You may remember his dear affection for his little nephew Eduar, who died a year ago at the age of 2. (We just visited his baby grave for the anniversary, Cristian was too weal to attend.) Berta and Chimino are Cristian’s parents, but when I say his own father shot him, I mean Carlos Montoya, his biological father, a little fling Berta had, I guess. A couple months ago, Cristian confided in me that Chimino wasn’t his real father. Actually, it’s more or less common knowledge, I find out. But it was Chimino who accompanied Cristian first to Victoria and then to the Yoro hospital and stayed at his bedside till he was out of danger, while Carlos was carted off to jail by the police. So who is Cristian’s real father, the drunk who shot him or the man who sat by his bed two days and nights without eating or drinking? (On the other hand, Chimino and Berta raised Cristian in a cantina! I mean, if my son were shot by a guy drunk on liquor I sold him, I’d think twice about selling any more booze--to anybody.)

Cristian is such a troubled youth. Ever since he turned 18 a year ago, I’ve been begging him to get out of Las Vegas and make a life for himself, a life without drunks cursing and vomiting and fighting in your living room. Now this. Supposedly an accident--Carlos was showing off his gun--but drunks don’t have “accidents.” The only good thing to come out of it was Berta closing the cantina for a couple days while Cristian’s life hung in the balance. When Cristian called me from the hospital after the shooting and, in a voice as thin as tissue paper, asked me, “Are you coming?” I immediately melted and said yes. I knew it was also a matter of money. Chimino had taken nothing with him, Berta had said she wanted to go but had no busfare, and Marvin, Cristian’s cousin who saw the whole thing, said he wanted to go. In fact, according to Marvin, Cristian probably saved his life. You see, Carlos fired his gun five times in the air, but then started pointing it at Marvin, just playing. Cristian screamed, “You still got a bullet in there!” and he jumped in front of Marvin just in time, as Carlos drooled, “Naw, it’s empty--see?” And bang!

When we got to the hospital, Cristian was already cleared to leave. But he barely seemed capable of movement. Berta and Marvin helped dress him with clothes Berta had brought from home (Cristian’s clothes, including his shoes and a favorite cap, had disappeared in the confusion) while Chimino and I got his prescriptions filled at the hospital pharmacy. I talked with the kindly nurses, who advised a nutritious diet and daily exercise. “Don’t just leave him in bed!”

“We need a wheel chair,” said Marvin. I thought, Oh boy, how long is that gonna take? But as I stepped into the hall, a wheel chair was sitting right there. “This is a sign,” I said to myself. “He’s going to be all right.” But his wound! The bullet wound itself is nothing, a pinprick, but the scar from the operation looks like they went in there with a backhoe. It’s as long as Chemo’s but much uglier. It looks more like soldering than surgery. I just hope it’s as secure as it looks. I really thought Cristian was going to faint just getting from the bed into the wheel chair. But we got him outside and found a cab, another torture, to squeeze his legs in. I told the taxi driver we had to stop for shoes--and a pillow! The cabbie took us into town and we got our goods right off the street. Then to the bus station, where the bus was just about to leave. The steps up looked like Everest! But we hoisted Cristian up and we were off--we thought. Turned out this bus was just a shuttle to the gas station where the regularly scheduled bus was being gassed up and maintenanced. So we had to get Cristian down and off and up and on, every inch a miserable mile. I thought, I’m gonna need another sign!

It’s at least a two-hour trip back to Victoria and we hadn’t even gone a third of the way when Cristian was saying, “I can’t make it, I can’t make it.” But he did make it, held and hugged tightly by Marvin all the way, and in Victoria we got him down and off that bus and up and on the bus to Las Vegas. Which just sat there, for an hour, waiting for another bus from San Pedro Sula. Holiday traffic, you see! Once in Las Vegas, okay, how to get him home, way to the other side of town?

Then came the other sign. Javier, a young man with a big car, spotted us hobbling and offered a ride. Cristian by this time had mastered the routine and practically jumped into the large plush back seat. Now Cristian is getting around with his brother Juny’s crutch. Juny, whose story graced these pages, died so painfully a couple years ago, nursed by--you guessed it--Cristian, who wore Juny’s clothes then for a while afterwards, to smooth the loss.

Cristian and I have had our go-arounds. One day he’d bring me a couple fish he caught, the next day he’d be a stone wall for some real or imagined offense. And sometimes he’d show up at my house half-drunk himself. Then I’d usher him into the spare room. “I’m not staying.” “That’s all right, Cristian, just a nap.” And he’d be there till morning. Anything’s better than the cantina.

Our last row was a week or so before he got shot. It was the night Chepito got drunk. It was the same night Dona Argentina died. In fact, about half the town it seemed used her wake as an excuse to get plastered. I headed over to her house about 9 p.m., along with Chemo and his brother Marcos, visiting for the holidays. Elvis had already warned me that he’d seen Chepito under the influence, but I didn’t expect to find him right out in the street spinning like a dreidel, accompanied by Nahum and Cristian, both tipsy too. The only “job” I’ve given Nahum, who sleeps at the Bandidos’ house, and Cristian, is to keep tabs on Pablito and Chepito. He gave Chepito the guaro!

So I blew a gasket. I smacked Nahum with a classic “Life of Christ” I’m reading. I swear, I could hardly have found a better use for the heavy volume! Nahum responded by whipping me with his belt buckle. I’ve still got the welt, but I didn’t feel a thing. I fronted him like Joan of Arc, and he backed off. I didn’t care if he killed me! I make no apology for defending Chepito’s right to a sober life. Then I turned on Cristian, who cussed me out very colorfully and gestured pretty violently, though without actually landing any blows. I “complimented” him on his vocabulary and then I yelled at the bystanders, a gallery of what Mark Twain called half-men, including Chepito’s teacher, who made no move to help him or me. I pulled Chepito home, where his mother Irene, all too late, “disciplined” her son with his own belt.

Needless to say, I never made it to Argentina’s. I rushed Chemo and Marcos back to our house and shut up the doors.

The next day, Leon came home, Chepito and Pablito’s father, after a year and a half in jail for drunkenly attacking Nazario with a machete. I didn’t actually see him myself till I headed back to Argentina’s again and saw him drunk face-down in the street like a heap of dirty laundry. So he picked up just where he left off. You know, a guy’s in jail all that time, gets out, you can hardly begrudge him a little lifting of a cup or two, but alcoholism is a death sentence and Leon’s disease is pulling his sons down to his hell, too. The saddest thing was Pablito’s seeming indifference, his only defense against the killing shame he must feel. “Pablito, are you going take your daddy home?” “No, that’s okay.”

So Leon just lay there for all the world to see. He sobered up some the next day, got drunk again, got a few odd jobs, got paid, got drunk--you’ve probably observed this pattern yourself somewhere. Finally, I saw him, all smiles and handshakes. Not a word about the new house we built, not a word about how he’d take care of Pablito and Chepito now, see them through school, raise them to honorable manhood, nothing about how he’d rejoin AA and be as faithful to the group as the chastened Scrooge to Tiny Tim, nothing. I have mostly steered clear, just opening my house to Pablito’s daily visits for a little breakfast, a little lunch if there are leftovers, a chore or two for a few bucks. Chepito, Leon’s image and likeness, sports a big ring on his finger and a huge belt buckle, both set with skulls. I’m trying to help him get him his national ID card, now that he’s 17. But it seems he’s already chosen his identity.

With Argentina’s burial began the nine days of mourning and prayer at her house. I think I finally loved her--she was not a pleasant person a lot of the time--when her fragile stick of a husband Domitilo collapsed in tears in my arms every single day. She’s got 13 children, all grown, the most infamous of which is Renan, a drunk’s drunk. He’s got some competition from 3 or four of his brothers, but Renan parades it! Disheveled and slobbering, he dances! barges into any event, a wedding, a party, a funeral, in this case, his own mother’s, who’d always shut her door whenever he came near, crying, “You’re a disgrace!”

When it came my turn to preach, I remembered we’d just had the elections, when there was a two-day ‘ley seca,’ or dry law, banning liquor sales nationwide. “Today we start a ‘ley seca’ in this house in honor of Argentina! No more booze! Never again! She gave her life for you all! [Indeed, she was only 58 and she looked like a 158 from the toll her graceless family had taken on her]. We’re going to swear off alcohol, but let’s all swear off selfishness too, and laziness, and irresponsibility.” Of the 13 kids, Lupe, the shining exception to the rule, the only one with a recognizably filial devotion, and who has a lovely family of her own with her husband Lenchito in El Zapote, attended the novena every day. On the eighth day, Renan, almost unrecognizable with his hair cut, a new shirt and slacks, and a benign demeanor, offered prayer right along with the rest of us. I hugged him like the Prodigal Son. But it was a one-day wonder. He’s back in the dirt long since.

Marta, the youngest daughter, and one of the most slovenly, redeemed herself and maybe all of us with her narration of Argentina’s final minutes. They had gotten her to the very door of the San Pedro Sula hospital when she collapsed, and in one grand gesture of self-donation, she spread her arms wide and up and lifted her head toward heaven, mouthing without speaking some prayer, then sank dead into Marta’s lap, a blessed smile on her face. It sounded for all the world like Jesus’ departure on the cross: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Before Cristian was shot, I had already been going to the cantina every day to change the bandage on his little nephew Joelito. He climbed a tree to pick (steal!) lemons and fell onto a broken branch that pierced his calf at its fleshiest spot, opening a wound deep and jagged enough to expose the fat and muscle. Long tutored to remain calm in emergencies from my days working at a swimming pool, I thought, when I saw the wound, OK, first I’m going to faint, and THEN I’ll remain calm. But I held it together and we--me and Cristian, who had brought him to me--hurried him over to Dr. Meme, who is sometimes hard to find, after hours. But Meme was in and stitched Joel up, inside and outside the wound. A week later, when Meme took the stitches out, the wound re-opened, so he said, “Just keep changing the bandage till it heals.” Bottom line, that day when Cristian was shot, I could have easily been at the cantina myself, changing Joelito’s bandage. And something tells me I wouldn’t have been any Joan of Arc facing a gun instead of a belt! But I was hiking to La Catorce for a Mass at the time. Oqueli’s blue pickup whizzed by me in a cloud of dust with Cristian and Marvin and Chimino in the back and I didn’t even know what had happened till Marvin called me on his cell phone.

What about Christmas? Well, any light in the darkness qualifies, which these stories show, I believe, but OK, how about an actual nativity? On December 2, Maricela gave birth to Mariana Teresa, named for my sister Mary Anne, who died last April, and for Teresa Jorgen. Weighing in at 10 pounds, she is worthy of two such grand names. In fact, the doctor induced Maricela a couple weeks early, at the Hospital Escuela in Tegucigalpa, because the baby just wouldn’t stop growing! This is an honor all around, and my sisters Barb and Nancy, who accompanied Mary Anne in her last days, were scrambling for Christmas presents for the newest member, as it were, of the Dulick family. And Teresa made sure her appreciation was felt, too. And this kid sure lucked out, with such a loving family of her own. Juan Blas and Maricela and their 6, now 7, kids are poor as church mice, and I do my best to keep them afloat, but some things money cannot buy. I keep trying to figure out how they could adopt Pablito and Chepito...or me, for that matter.

Actually, Chemo and Marcos’ grandmother Natalia has adopted me. Just after the elections, Chemo’s brother Santos and his wife Alba, daughter of Natalia, and their four kids went off to the mountains of Quebrada Amarilla to pick coffee. There went our gravy train! We’d been going over to their house down by the river every night for supper, once I had stopped my own spaghetti suppers for all comers after Chemo got away and got drunk one night and I resolved to be a better dad, and spend more time with him.

Those were such pleasant evenings, Alba’s suppers; and the walk home under the street lamps and the stars seemed like a dream. So, after some hesitation, when Chemo and Marcos were already over at ‘mamita’s’ all the time, I sort of insinuated myself with Natalia and Elio her husband and their three grown sons. As with Alba, I finance the fixings, and Natalia whips up the simple and delicious meals; so our sweet evenings have resumed, including the quiet walk home. That’s a Christmas story, too, on a nightly basis--always room at the inn.

As for Christmas itself, our “Midnight Mass” started at 6:00 p.m., with guest priest Fr. Tony Pedraz from El Progreso. He looks like Santa Claus, red face, tussled white hair, roly-poly, so when he tells the Christmas story, you believe him! But his message, his gospel, if you will, glowed a lot brighter than Rudoph: it was a fire! He was (is!) a full-fledged member of the ‘resistencia’ (the Resistance), denouncing from the beginning the coup that ousted Mel Zelaya, and in the streets at every opportunity, a chaplain to the marchers, you might say. His sermon lasted an hour, but the congregation was enthralled; time passed like a blink. He barely talked about Mel or Micheletti by name--he talked about Jesus! which made the same point. The repulsive thing that both Mel and Micheletti--and Pepe, too--are guilty of is, it’s all about them. Ever since Jesus’ birth first scared the pants off Herod the King, in his raging, the die was cast: make Jesus a target, make Jesus a joke, make him a cover-boy, make him your pal, make him your pet, make him your Che, make him your jewelry, make him your “Lord,” but watch your back! He’s a thief in the night.

Cristian, who never goes to church, preached the same sermon in his own way: he “pardoned” Carlos Montoya! He told the police to let him out of jail. Carlos was grateful enough to bring some provisions for the family over to the cantina--for a few days. “And now he’s forgotten you?” I asked Cristian. “Pretty much.” But Cristian’s charity should not be forgotten. I wish I could live it so well.

We ended the year with Ery’s birthday party. Carolina made the cake, this one for her own brother, and Angelita is here, too, with her baby. She loves to dance with her brother. Ery turned 22, and he had a good time. He even danced with me! It was a sign, I hope, of blessings to come in 2010.

In January we begin another odyssey in search of Rosa’s heart operation. A doctor in Tocoa told her, “You are a candidate for a heart transplant.” That’s how sick she is! A transplant here, of course, is unheard of. The first kidney transplants are just about to be attempted. It’s not for lack of fresh kills. Healthy teens are sacrificed every day in gang activity; live hearts abound. But the nearest Barnes Hospital is...Barnes Hospital. On the other hand, I just talked to Ron Roll, whose Helping Hands sponsors the brigadas, and he enthused, “We’re already talking about Rosa! We are putting her first on the list!” And Dr. Christian Gilbert just emailed me to say, after I told him Rosa is feeling better and stronger with the medicine he prescribed, “This is awesome news! She may not even need the surgery!” Now that’s the kind of “second opinion” I like to hear! But when I called Rosa with the good news, she goes, “Oh, crap, today my knees are killing me, my chest hurts like hell, my stomach’s in knots, and I got a horrible headache.” “Rosa,” I said, “whatever you do, don’t tell the doctor!” Anyway, please include Rosa in your New Year’s resolutions, to transplant a bit of your own heart in her hopes.

Love, Miguel

From Giuseppe Ricciotti, The Life of Christ (1941):

“The Sermon on the Mount is the most complete and radical paradox ever asserted. No discourse on earth was ever more subversive, or better, reversive than this. Until the Sermon on the Mount, the world was united in proclaiming that blessedness was good fortune, that satisfaction came with satiety, that pleasure was the satisfaction of desire, and honor the product of esteem. On the other hand, Jesus announces that blessedness resides in misfortune, satiety in famished hunger, pleasure in unfulfillment, and honor in disesteem. “

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2009

Habemus Pepe

Finally! Elections in Honduras!

And the winner is...Pepe Lobo, the National Party candidate, by a landslide, over the Liberal Party candidate Elvin Santos, the empty suit I called an Elvis impersonator in my dispatches last year when he won the nomination. Pepe Lobo is no empty suit--I won’t say what he is full of, but I call him Pepe Lodo, which means ‘mud,’ or a similar substance. It was to be expected, since Mel Zelaya, the president ousted in a coup last June 28, was a Liberal. Elvin saw it coming, he had to have, as he tried desperately to distance himself from Mel’s disgrace, even though he had started out as Mel’s vice-president till he quit to run for president himself. Oh, you’re gonna love Pepe, he makes Sarah Palin look like Ralph Nader. It’s Mel’s ultimate revenge--You guys didn’t want me to let me be president for life, well, four years of Pepe will seem like an eternity!

You know, they call Honduras a “banana republic.” More like a banana peel! And the latest to slip was Mel Zelaya himself. I ended the November CASA with the hopeful news of an agreement to end the crisis. Mel, the ousted president, signed on, Micheletti, the “de facto” president, signed on. The U.S. A. loved it. The whole world was thrilled. The “spirit” of the agreement suggested Mel’s return to power, certainly, but left the actual decision up to the national Congress, after consulting with the Supreme Court, the Electoral Tribunal, and the Armed Forces. And all parties agreed to recognize the winner of the November 29 elections. Somebody must have taken Mel aside and pointed out, You know what you’ve done? You just legitimized all the institutions you defied before: the Supreme Court that ordered your arrest, the Congress that replaced you with Micheletti, the Electoral Tribunal that ruled your Cuarta Urna unconstitutional, and the Army that FedExed you out of the country. While Micheletti dithered about scheduling any vote in Congress for restoration, the U.S. State Department “clarified” its support for the elections--that is, with or without Mel’s reinstatement. Mel cried foul and urged a boycott of the elections. “Obama stabbed me in the back! I wouldn’t accept reinstatement now, even if ya begged me!” Obama, in his unflappable style, just applied the diplomatic equivalent of Ritalin and looked the other way.

So we hobbled along till this past Sunday, November 29, the nicest day we’ve had in a month--sunny, pretty clouds dotting a blue sky, comfortable breezes blowing, a lovely day. I went up to the school early to see if any people really were voting. Many people, thoroughly disillusioned, had simply sworn off the whole process this time. But, by golly, folks were voting! Mostly old folks and women at first, and eventually younger voters and even some of the “resistencia.” Throughout the country turnout exceeded all expectations--over 60%--and most welcome of all, there was no violence.

Micheletti, who’s been in politics longer than Obama’s been alive, may have outsmarted him. Lookit, we had the elections and Mel’s not coming back, despite the “official” U.S. position that Micheletti is an illegitimate “golpista,” a coup plotter. (And don’t get me wrong, Micheletti is intolerable, the usurper with the Santa smile.) But even Micheletti, the Liberal lion, wasn’t counting on Pepe’s victory. See, Mel’s whole idea was to wreck the elections, and Micheletti’s whole idea was to “save” them. But, save them for Pepe? On the other hand, even the kids around here like Chemo love Pepe! They’ve seen too many “Die Hard” movies; they think Pepe is Bruce Willis, he’s gonna clean out the gangs and the bad guys. Indeed, as a cartoon hero, Pepe is perfect.

Lots of countries are still refusing to recognize the elections, because Mel remains outside. On the other hand, even President Oscar Arias of Costa Rica, the original negotiator solicited by Hillary Clinton for the “dialog” between Mel and Micheletti, finally said, What the heck--if the elections come off clean, why not recognize the winner? You know, it’s strange. As Obama has said, democracy is “not just elections.” So when will the world community say to a country--Honduras would be a prime example--we won’t recognize your government till your children are no longer victims of Ignorance and Want (the urchins ‘neath the robe of the Ghost of Christmas Present. Check them out in the new Jim Carrey version.) By that standard, very few nations have any claim to make.

Speaking of Charles Dickens, “Bleak House”--a 900-page novel without a plot--was the perfect accompaniment to our endless odyssey with Chemo’s sister Rosa in hopes of heart surgery. In both cases, I kept waiting for something to happen. You can’t say Dickens does not warn you; the book opens in a fog that never lifts. I sort of felt the same way. Jarndyce and Jarndyce, the ‘case’ stalled in Chancery for decades, serves only to enrich the lawyers. In our case, our three-week trek to Tocoa, to Tegucigalpa, and back to Tocoa served mainly to profit every bus, restaurant, hotel, and taxi driver along our route.

Let me repeat some information, because not everyone got my little updates on Rosa.

I had prayed to conform my mind to the will of God, whether for Rosa’s life--or death. I was not prepared for “Wait.” But you can’t say Dr. Christian Gilbert, like Dickens, didn’t warn us. He was alarmed, in that doctorly, sober kind of way, at Rosa’ s gravity. She’s got a mitral valve like the Lincoln Tunnel. He had brought a replacement valve with him from Memphis, but finally he doubted Rosa’s strength and his own skill for success. Cautioned no doubt by the very sad deaths of two children during the brigada, little hearts that could not be fixed, he postponed Rosa till January, when the brigada returns.

I finished ‘Bleak House,’ with room to spare. There is a story, even it there’s barely a plot, and it’s the story of the poor and what they suffer, even from their supposed ‘benefactors.’ Dragging Rosa and her husband Tonio all over creation for nothing in particular, I sort of felt maybe it was my story. And some of you made such sacrifices to ease our expenses, I was embarrassed at my empty hands. But, thinking always of your kindnesses, I kept a happy face and never suggested I was headed for debtor’s prison! Chemo was our guide, he never tired of the arcade at the mall, even though a couple grenades had been discovered in the restrooms. We visited the hilltop zoo and the big statue of Jesus that overlooks the city. We went to a museum (OK, that was a mistake), and we ate four times a day. Rosa, the skinniest one among us, never got full!

Surely Dr. Gilbert made the right decision, and may not be ready to risk the operation even in January. You know, if you saw the Hospital Escuela, where Rosa’s surgery was scheduled, you’d bar the door, too. (Chemo was operated on at the Seguro Hospital, a more modern semi-private facility.) The place looks like a set from ‘Children of Men,’ or the Titanic, after the sinking. It’s a greasy, rusty, sordid mess. Talk about embarrassing! It’s the shame of Honduras, where I have yet to hear a politician propose the construction of a new hospital, and most of them--including Mel, Micheletti, or Pepe or Elvin Santos, who OWNS the biggest mall in Tegucigalpa--could finance a dozen hospitals out of their personal fortunes. The real heroes are the doctors and nurses who work in impossible conditions to save some lives. As we were checking Rosa into the hospital, a process which for some strange reason, runs through the emergency room, the young, unperturbable doctor Karen Herrera, filling the forms, had to jump up at least three times, to help revive a man who coded, to tend a gunshot victim escorted by the police who shot him, and a man with some ghastly wound on his foot. I thought, dear God! Rosa’s gonna need surgery just to get out of this room! I swear the cop’s gun actually brushed my arm as he was holding his prey in place. This’d be great, I thought, if the victim’s buddies come in here to rescue him, guns blazing....

Once she was in, it was not that easy to visit Rosa the next day. The woman at the gate was not going to let us in, that is, all three of us--Tonio, Chemo, and me--till she mentioned Tonio’s ‘sombrero,’ and I said, “Like Mel!” And she corked up and pumped her fist in the air, “Suba Mel! Suba Mel!” Up with Mel! Up with Mel! I had another phrase in mind for Mel, also involving the word ‘up,’ but I took the hint and echoed her enthusiasm. When she said, How about the folks in Tocoa, they’re with Mel, right? “They love him!” I lied. Mel, as the massive vote for Pepe just showed, is anything but popular up there. But it got us in.

That’s what I mean by the good folks forced to work in a snakepit. She was a sweetie, under the crust. Just like the good woman with rings on each finger and red make-up who let us in with our little band of blood donors. Ron Roll, the founder, with his wife Alba, of Helping Hands that sponsors the heart surgery brigada, had said, in his inimitable malapropism, “Miguel, I don’t know if they need 5 or 6 gallons,” when I asked how many pints we had to get. We started with Tonio, arriving about 6 a.m. to get in line and we spent all morning waiting in more lines. Tonio told them, “Take two pints!” and I wish they could have. The next day I got there at 5:00 a.m. with 3 more donors, but only one qualified, and it still took all morning. The one who qualified, Karla, from Las Vegas now living in Tegucigalpa, recruited 4 of her neighbors for the next day, and this time I got there at 4:00 and was almost first in line. I held the spot till the others showed up at 5:30, as we arranged, and that’s when we needed help. Delmys had just turned 18, the minimum age for donation, and she didn’t have her I.D. yet, just the receipt. Somehow I talked the woman at the window outside into accepting that, and then the nurse at the blood bank itself inside. They COULD have cut us off without a chance, but you could just see they really did want to help us. And they found a way. It is the will of God, I think, touching our heart. And in the hospital, a pastor and his wife came and offered to pray over Rosa. And they did touch her heart.

And Chemo was on TV! The most popular newshow, “Abriendo Brecha” (loosely translated, ‘Showing the Way’) invited Ron Roll and the president of the Rotary Club, also a sponsor of the brigada, and three kids, a 2-year-old and and an 8 year-old and their daddies, and Chemo. I don’t think they understood that I was Chemo’s daddy, but that was OK because I could snap photos of the big-screen TV in the lobby of the studio. Chemo did not speak, but I loved the way Ron Roll placed his hand on Chemo’s shoulder.

Once we got Rosa back home to Tocoa, with quick visits to two doctors and Rufina (Rosa, Chemo, and Marcos’ mother), Chemo and I returned to Las Vegas, bringing along Chemo’s brother Marcos, just as we did last year. Then word came that my computer was ready for pickup--in Tegucigalpa. I mentioned last month it had been damaged by some window-shopper who tried to pull it out of my house. Miraculously, Apple honored the warranty, still in effect, for repairs that would have cost at least $500.00, replacing the screen and the keyboard. And it works, well, better than new! But it meant another trip to Tegucigalpa. I decided to kill two birds with one stone, and fulfill my promise to Pablito and Chepito if they passed fourth grade to take them to the big city. So, with Chemo and Marcos, we were 5. One cab driver had to say, Listen, if you see any police, one of you duck down--four in the rear seat is illegal! As soon as we got there, I got my MacBook, then to the mall for shoes and pants and shirts for everyone. Pablito had completely walked off the soles of his Keds and Chepito’s were mere strips. We checked into the hotel, one room, two big beds--I was not about to let them have a room to themselves! and headed back to the mall, for Pizza Hut and the arcade. The next day we saw “2012” at the movies--which, you’d have to say, in Honduras, the effect of the end of the world would be negligible, but its endless scenes of destruction bored even these kids. Elio and Mema graciously accepted our invitation to lunch the next day, and patiently advised the boys to stay with school, work hard, respect Miguel. We went to the zoo (where my digital camera stopped working and it is NOT under warranty) and the big Jesus. And the arcade, and we ate four times a day. So I guess I spent that $500.00 after all....

But if you want excess, try Facebook. On second thought, don’t! Somebody hacked into my account and started launching spam--like I don’t gas enough myself!--I was so mad I logged on at the first opportunity and canceled my account, period. I never really “got” Facebook. So somebody made a sandwich, that’s wonderful. And I never did find my “wall.” But I was happy to find long-lost friends, so if you’re still hooked up and someone wonders what happened to Dulick, give them my email address, please, or direct them to my blog, michaeldulick.blogspot.com.

From “Bleak House”: “The poor only may and can, or shall and will be reclaimed according to somebody’s theory but nobody’s practice.” But then there’s Mrs. Bagnet: “She receives Good to her arms without a hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot of darkness near her.” And there is even a Rosa in the book, with her “pretty village face,” just like Chemo’s sister.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA—NOVEMBER 2009

Touched by an angel

Honduras is going to the World Cup! With seconds left in a game with Costa Rica, Jonathan Bornstein scored a goal for the United States. That goal, combined with Honduras’ victory over El Salvador the same night, clinched a berth for Honduras in the World Cup, the global soccer tournament that makes the World Series look like hopscotch. (Of course, if the Cardinals had gotten a little farther…) Both games were played at the same time, the whole country was flipping channels all night. Honduras’ game ended, and we held our breath for the longest minute of our lives. If you felt a sudden lift beneath your feet, it was 7 million Hondurans—and at least one gringo—all leaping into the air at the same time. With one kick—actually, it was a header—Jonathan Bornstein did more for peace between our countries than anyone has in 5 months. Hondurans waved American flags, gingos donned Honduran soccer jerseys. Let’s just say it was a miracle.

The celebration was overdue. The last time Honduras was in the World Cup was 1982. In those days, I didn’t even know what the World Cup was. But I soon learned. In those days, Padre Patricio and I rode mules from village to village, and we would get updates from folks glued to radios spitting static. Ever since, I’ve agonized with Honduras every 4 years, hoping maybe this time…

In Las Vegas, a spontaneous erupted as the whole town poured into the streets. All 6 cars in town formed an impromptu parade, bristling with cheering fans, a conga line wound around the soccer field, the Las Vegas Band, who just recorded a CD, set up their keyboards and loudspeakers, folks shook my hand to thank me as for the U.S. assist to Honduras’ hopes, finally fulfilled. So we’re going to South Africa, the host of the 2010 World Cup. We should feel right at home, since I understand their crime rate is about the same as ours.

Speaking of crimes, that night of celebration ended horribly for me, when I lost track of Chemo in all the hubbub and finally found him dead drunk in a mud puddle in a dark street, barely breathing. Chepito, of all people, helped me with him, carry him home, pull off his wet clothes, and cold shower him for about 40 minutes, then get him into bed. Chemo was unconscious, and I wished I were. Because I did blame myself, you know. I thought I’d killed my son. I checked him every 10 minutes to be sure he was still alive. When I touched him about 2 in the morning, he was soaking wet, and so was the bed. The inevitable had happened—the liquor had recycled through his bladder. I got him into a dry bed and started over.

The next day was a national holiday to celebrate the World Cup, so I assumed there’d be no school. But when I saw kids heading for class, I told Doricell to tell Profe Nancy that Chemo was ‘sick.’ About 8 a.m. Chemo stirred. ‘I’m hungry.’ He wanted soup, so I fixed the biggest Cup o’ Soup I could and he slurped it up in a couple minutes. At recess time, Profe Nancy sent a couple little classmates for Chemo, lest he miss the last day of regular class (the next day was a party). Chemo bounced up, threw on his uniform, and ran off to school, just like nothing had happened. I went along behind, to tell Profe Nancy what had happened.

Maybe I have finally become a father. I thought, I have to take care of Chemo FIRST. I can’t be feeding half the neighborhood when I don’t even know sometimes where Chemo is. I can’t be running off to all these meetings and groups and celebraciones and not spend time with my own kid. Actually, I had already decided to cut the nightly spaghetti suppers down to Sundays only, once ‘summer vacation’ began. Now I decided to implement the new regime at once.

It’s been a delight! I told Chemo I’m not trying to punish him or hog-tie him, I’m just trying to put him first. So I don’t do ‘my’ thing until I know where Chemo is. He’s usually with Santos his brother and Alba and the kids at their house. They just got electricity—I paid for 350 feet of wire to connect them to the nearest post—so it’s better than ever for evening visits. Now I can leave my house, hang around at the soccer field as Chemo and I wait for Santos to leave the AA meeting, and I’ve even gone to their house for supper, to enjoy Alba’s version of spaghetti, with a little bone of chicken on the side. Delicious!

One Sunday, instead of Mass—and it was going to be big, with First Communions and all—I skipped out to accept the invitation of our AA group to go to Las Cañas for their chapter’s anniversary. It’s just about 20 minutes outside Victoria by car, and it was great. I took Chemo, Santos took his son Santitos, Don Jose took his kids Uladislao and Rigo. There was just as much grace and faith in the men’s testimony—plus a few cusswords for spice!—as you’d find in any church.

This CASA may look a little different this month—if indeed I can send it at all—because I’m patching things together after my laptop got mangled when someone tried to pull it out of my office through a slashed screen, a broken window, and an iron grate. That was on my birthday, October 12. Some present, huh? But that was after the party, with delicious food prepared by Dora and Brenda, whose husband Wilfredo celebrates the same day, so the whole day wasn’t spoiled. My MacBook is at the biggest electronics store in Honduras, where they sell Apple products. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they will honor the guarantee still in effect. Only ‘Normal Use’ is covered, of course. But hey, in Honduras, defenestration of all types is normal!

In fact, ousted president Mel Zelaya may be coming back inside, thanks to an 'agreement' that was suddenly announced between Mel and de facto president Roberto Micheletti when some heavy-hitters from the U.S. State Department came down here and twisted some arms. It would create a 'government of reconciliation': Mel-chiletti? Obi-wan-Kenobi said, 'Use The Force,' looks like Obama-wan-Kenobi used The Prize, the Nobel Peace Prize, that is. Dear God! if we do get peace, it will be another miracle.

After the class party, Profe Nancy took Chemo aside and quietly counseled him for about 10 minutes. I wasn’t close enough to hear, but I could tell she loved him, her wings enfolding him. She’ll be his teacher again in third grade, and I couldn’t ask for anyone better.

Meanwhile, Lily graduated first in her class at the National School of Music, and she’s not even 18 yet. Elvis and Dora went to Tegucigalpa for the ceremony. I was invited as a special guest, but suddenly, Doctora Karla fired a flare to come to Tegucigalpa--with Rosa! I stammered and stuttered. If she had told me to take a flight to the Moon and get back by Wednesday, I would have thought it more likely. I grabbed the fattest little book I had, Charles Dickens' 'Bleak House,' and off we went, Chemo and I. We got from Las Vegas to Tocoa in one day--9 hours, 6 buses--and back to Tegucigalpa the next--9 hours, 1 bus--with Rosa and her husband Tonio. The key here was another angel, when Tonio's buddy gave us a ride to the bus station at 5:00 in the morning. He saw us standing in the dark at the edge of their village hoping for a local bus that never came.

Next day, Rosa had her appointment, and Ron Roll just wrapped his big arms around her and told her, 'Everybody knows about Rosa!' And he's all over Chemo, 'Get over here, big guy!' A doctor and nurse who had arrived early in advance of the Brigada checked her out and consulted directly with her soon-to-be surgeon Dr. Christian Gilbert, live from his office in Memphis via Skype. 'I'll bring the valve,' he said. The man's a genius, an angel you could say.

But he can't make blood. The hospital needs 6 pints, a sort of downpayment before the surgery. Tonio gave the first pint. It took all morning waiting in 4 different lines, and I couldn't imagine getting any more. Scavenging for donors, qualified donors, you see, because not everyone willing to donate CAN donate, like me, with my hepatitis still cobwebbed in my bloodstream.

From 'Bleak House': 'What the poor are to the poor is little known, except to themselves and God.' Sometimes the door opens a crack, and you can see inside.... Pray for us, be good to us, and I will update you shortly, I hope, on Rosa's surgery.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

Peace Sells...But Who’s Buying?

On September 21 President Mel Zelaya, ousted in a coup on June 28, crept back into Honduras on little cat feet, hitching about 15 clandestine rides from El Salvador, and popping up like a Jack-in-the-box at the Brazilian embassy in the very heart of Tegucigalpa, igniting a frenzy among his delirious fans. For a couple days riots ensued, as the “Resistance” and the police beating them away re-staged the 1969 Rolling Stones Altamont concert hosted by the Hell’s Angels, for your viewing pleasure. After weeks of neglect, Honduras shot into the headlines again. The “interim” President, Roberto Micheletti, said, “Good for you, Mel--you’re under arrest,” and he told Brazil to hand him over. He toyed with the idea of going in after Mel, then said, “He can just stay there for 5 or 10 years,” then he invited Mel to “dialog.” All this within the first 24 hours.

And then a little miracle happened. With practically no warning and less planning, the four presidential candidates (‘los presidenciables’), who, despite representing four different political parties, have been campaigning more or less in tandem like the Four Musketeers to present a united front for the elections scheduled November 29, jumped on the invitation to dialog. They met with Micheletti at the presidential palace, and then just rode over to the Brazilian embassy and dropped in on Mel. I tell you, I could hardly believe the pictures--back-slapping, hand shakes, smiles and hugs all around. It looked like the Cardinals clubhouse after clinching another championship. Some of these guys have threatened to kill each other in the past!

Things had looked very grim, with Mel getting sort of kooky, claiming “they” were poisoning him with radon gas or something and hiding Israeli assassins in the bushes. But this scene was a delight. Now, if it can just get our country back on track. Everyone agrees the elections are the only solution to the crisis, but lately there has been zero interest in voting, it seemed so pointless.

Then, suddenly, another turn, for the worse. Previously so proud of the freedoms he “preserved” by deposing Mel, Micheletti went a little crazy in the head á la Dr. Strangelove and decreed martial law--no assembling, no dissenting, no talking, no warrants, no warning. Not a lot different, really, from the police-state tactics in the streets of Pittsburgh during the recent G-20 Summit. But even Micheletti’s loyalists think he’s lost his mind. He’s certainly lost his trump card, his vaunted legality (see next paragraph). Panicked, the ‘presidenciables’ abruptly changed their tune from “We Are the World” to Megadeth. They fell all over themselves to condemn this latest threat to “democracy,” that is, to their own slim hope of legitimacy. Micheletti, for his part, said the crackdown was necessary to counter Mel’s continuing calls for “revolution.” Indeed, when Mel sounded the alarm for “the final push,” even his host President Lula of Brazil cautioned Mel to simmer down. And the U.S. State Department advised that Mel’s dramatics were “foolish.” Then, another little miracle: Micheletti quickly repented and promised to reverse the restrictions, begged forgiveness of “the people,” and he sent Lula a “big hug.” Jim Carrey plays more stable characters!

A legal study just published by the U.S. Library of Congress found Mel’s removal from the presidency constitutional, according to Honduran law, though not his removal from the country. You know, some readers have been confused by my reports--the result both of my glancing blows and even more because of the insane situation--but let me summarize. Unlike the U.S. constitution, some articles in the Honduran constitution cannot be amended, especially its strict one-term limit for the president. Furthermore, the constitution declares even the attempt to amend this provision an act of treason that automatically separates an official from their office. Mel forced the issue when he insisted on a sham balloting scheduled for June 28 to extend his term. The Supreme Court judged that Mel had crossed the line and they ordered his arrest, for treason. The army grabbed him and flew him out of the country. So the presidency was vacant, and Roberto Micheletti, president of Congress, next in constitutional succession (Honduras has no Vice-President) was sworn in. So there you are. Easy as pie. Very neat, on paper. Now, back to the real world, where, as the protesters at the G-20 in Pittsburgh would have noted, the poor should have had their say, too. In fact, conditions are so desperate here that maybe all the poor will say, “I’m going to America!” You already have a million Hondurans up there, what’s a few million more? Very inviting, especially with “Obamacare” in view...!

I’ll tell you who was right in the middle of the mess--a very pregnant Maricela, who went to Tegucigalpa for a check-up the day before Mel’s lightning-strike return and was trapped in the chaos. No buses, no cabs, nothing but a 24-hour curfew for days on end, and no appointments kept at the hospital. This is her seventh pregnancy, so she knows how that goes, but it’s the first one where she’s had to dodge tear-gas canisters. Here I am holed up with Chemo in our bunker in Las Vegas, and there’s Maricela out there risking her life! With diabetes and high blood pressure, she really needs some careful monitoring for the baby due in December, who she “knows” is a girl (seven kids gives you some authority, no doubt). She plans to name her Teresa--for Teresa Jorgen--and Mariana, for my sister Mary Anne, who died, you remember, last April. Sometimes you have to wonder, what if we could just keep politicians like Mel and Micheletti barefoot and pregnant and out of sight...? Or, to take it from the other angle, why isn’t Maricela president of Honduras? A mother, instead of a...”mother”...if ya know what I mean....

After months of frustration with my short-wave radio, I finally thought, Podcasts! I found some of my “favorites” on iTunes, including Alex Jones, the nuclear yellow-cake of talk radio, just in time to find him sling-shotting actor Charlie Sheen into the 9/11 conspiracy debate. Did you know that the planes that hit the Twin Towers were drones? This all sounded more consequential when it was the only broadcast I could get on the radio as I drifted off to sleep. On an iPod in the cold light of day, I want to scream, but I guess it keeps me young, the blood circulating, you know, when it isn’t curdling. Charlie Sheen wants Obama to re-open at least 2 and 1/2 investigations, because 9/11 was “an inside job.” I don’t know about 9/11, but Honduras is certainly looking like a “globalist” conspiracy. How else can you explain this “false flag” of self-inflicted wounds, pulverizing the country under cover of “restoring” us to “democracy”?

September 15 is Honduras Independence Day. Some independence, huh? But I guess we’re probably more independent than ever--the whole world hates us! Isolated and shamed like an abortion in the basement, like Jaycee Lee Dugard--before her rescue. Because of the “crisis,” the teachers and other unions declared the day a dead letter, but, you know what, they do that every year. Big celebrations are supposedly a boon to businesses--students dress up for parades, new band uniforms and outfits, candy and other goodies shared at school, big sales events at all the stores and malls, decorations and extravagance throughout--so to “punish” the oppressors, the unions try to shut the day down like the Grinch on Christmas. Such dryness is naturally doomed. Mindless or not, folks will celebrate, even in adversity.

At our school in Las Vegas, a compromise. No parades or marches, but a whole morning of dances, dramas, and diversions with a “cultural” theme celebrating our heritage. Elvis was helping with the sound and music, and at one point, when a cute couple of second-graders performed, he jumped on his cell phone to call me--I was in the back of the crowd. “Get some pictures of Dorisell!” I hurried closer to the edge of the grass and started snapping away, but I thought, That little girl is not Dorisell. Did I misunderstand, or Elvis doesn’t even know his own kid? I took at least 40 pictures of the little couple anyway, and they got a nice hand. It was not till after the whole morning was over and Flor the principal told all the students to report to their classrooms, where the teachers had little bags of candy for them, that I went to Profe Nancy’s second-grade, where Chemo is a classmate with Dorisell, and saw Dorisell, in little black boots and little gray pants, and a little boy’s shirt, and a big mustache in her hand, and it hit me. Dorisell was the boy! Dorisell was the BOY!! I felt like I’d just read the last page of the new Dan Brown novel. The rest of the day, I just kept telling people, Hey, did you see Dorisell in the presentations this morning? No? Yes, you did! She was the boy! Dorisell, even at 7, is such a pro. She just did her job, she wasn’t looking for any celebrity. I could not get her excited by her triumph, even when I “slideshowed” all 40 pictures on my laptop for her. Later, Dora explained that Profe Nancy had, of course, wanted one of the second-grade boys for the dance, but none of them could, or would, learn the steps--and we all looked at Chemo. “Who, me?” Now, Chemo does love to “move,” when he’s got his music going, and I would have loved to see him take this leap forward, but you have to congratulate Dorisell for her showMANship!

Dorisell’s big brother Elvis, Jr., danced, too, with the folk dancers, but I could recognize him all right. He is a boy and he danced a boy. Other kids performed various skits, including a take-off on “Laura,” a TV talk show like Jerry Springer. But, again, cross-dressing, with an eighth-grader, Jonathan, as Laura. Now, that is a brave 14-year-old!

But the most moving performance was one not intended for applause at all, and I did not get a photo of it, either. Tomas Cruz, a young teacher from the very poor village of Pueblo Nuevo, who has appeared in these chronicles before when he got his a job at age 18 teaching first-graders, sang the National Anthem in Tulupan, an indigenous language. It was moving not only because of its strange and exotic sounds but even more so because of its unspoken pleading for inclusion of a forgotten people, the Tulupan Indians, lost and ignored in the mountains ever since their land became our land, “la patria.”

So September 15 was big, but I was even more excited about 09-09-09, not because I play the lottery, but because it was Chemo’s birthday. He picked out new clothes at Juanita’s store, including new shoes. It’s not just a birthday present, it’s practically a necessity. Chemo has a hard time getting dressed sometimes because he gives his clothes away. He gave pants and a couple shirts to his brother Marquitos when we visited there in July. He’ll measure a kid with a pair of his shorts and say, “These’ll fit you.” He’ll hold up a pair of not-so-old soccer shoes and give me a questioning look and point to the kid beside him. I’ll nod Yes. What am I supposed to say? I think of Fr. Mychal Judge, the first official casualty of 9/11, who apparently never got all the way home with the clothes he left the house in, because he’d’ve given something away to the poor. I long to be that simple, and I guess I’m glad that Chemo already is.

For Chemo’s big day we had a huge Carolina cake and a party on the roof. It was sort of hot, so we crowded into what shade there was. But there were no complaints, especially when Chemo cranked up some new music I had just downloaded for him. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention we got up at 5:00 in the morning to play “Las Mananitas,” the traditional birthday serenade. I played it as loud as I dared at that hour, but Chemo would not wake up. He just rolled over, even after four repeats, and he didn’t remember a thing the rest of the day. Imagine! Sleeping like that! (Like father, like son, you’re probably thinking....)

Chemo turned 15. That’s remarkable. I can’t help thinking back to last year, when he celebrated his 14th birthday in Tegucigalpa just before his open-heart operation. We spent that September 9th scrambling for blood donors, the longest day of my life, till September 12, that is, the actual day of his operation. A century passed between 2:00 and 6:00 p.m. as I waited for him to live or die, under the knife. Well, he lived, didn’t he? And a year later his gaping scar is no more than a chalk line on his chest. Maybe the wound festering in Honduras can heal as surely. You prayed and carried Chemo into life, can you still remember us, till justice come? And by the way, I haven’t seen Chemo’s new birthday shirt since his birthday. Not on Chemo anyway.....

Love, Miguel